Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramhansa Yogananda

Silently I had
entered the room in great awe. The angelic appearance of Master
Mahasaya fairly dazzled me. With silky white beard and large lustrous
eyes, he seemed an incarnation of purity. His upraised chin and
folded hands apprized me that my first visit had disturbed him in
the midst of his devotions.

His simple words
of greeting produced the most violent effect my nature had so far
experienced. The bitter separation of my mother's death I had thought
the measure of all anguish. Now an agony at separation from my Divine
Mother was an indescribable torture of the spirit. I fell moaning
to the floor.

Abandoned in
some oceanic desolation, I clutched his feet as the sole raft of
my rescue.

"Holy sir,
thy intercession! Ask Divine Mother if I find any favor in Her sight!"

This promise
is one not easily bestowed; the master was constrained to silence.

Beyond reach
of doubt, I was convinced that Master Mahasaya was in intimate converse
with the Universal Mother. It was deep humiliation to realize that
my eyes were blind to Her who even at this moment was perceptible
to the faultless gaze of the saint. Shamelessly gripping his feet,
deaf to his gentle remonstrances, I besought him again and again
for his intervening grace.

"I will
make your plea to the Beloved." The master's capitulation came
with a slow, compassionate smile.

What power in
those few words, that my being should know release from its stormy
exile?

"Sir, remember
your pledge! I shall return soon for Her message!" Joyful anticipation
rang in my voice that only a moment ago had been sobbing in sorrow.

Descending the
long stairway, I was overwhelmed by memories. This house at 50 Amherst
Street, now the residence of Master Mahasaya, had once been my family
home, scene of my mother's death. Here my human heart had broken
for the vanished mother; and here today my spirit had been as though
crucified by absence of the Divine Mother. Hallowed walls, silent
witness of my grievous hurts and final healing!

My steps were
eager as I returned to my Gurpar Road home. Seeking the seclusion
of my small attic, I remained in meditation until ten o'clock. The
darkness of the warm Indian night was suddenly lit with a wondrous
vision.

Haloed in splendor,
the Divine Mother stood before me. Her face, tenderly smiling, was
beauty itself.

"Always
have I loved thee! Ever shall I love thee!"

The celestial
tones still ringing in the air, She disappeared.

The sun on the
following morning had hardly risen to an angle of decorum when I
paid my second visit to Master Mahasaya. Climbing the staircase
in the house of poignant memories, I reached his fourth-floor room.
The knob of the closed door was wrapped around with a cloth; a hint,
I felt, that the saint desired privacy. As I stood irresolutely
on the landing, the door was opened by the master's welcoming hand.
I knelt at his holy feet. In a playful mood, I wore a solemn mask
over my face, hiding the divine elation.

"Sir,
I have comevery early, I confess!for your message. Did the Beloved
Mother say anything about me?"

"Mischievous
little sir!"

Not another
remark would he make. Apparently my assumed gravity was unimpressive.

"Why so
mysterious, so evasive? Do saints never speak plainly?" Perhaps
I was a little provoked.

"Must you
test me?" His calm eyes were full of understanding. "Could
I add a single word this morning to the assurance you received last
night at ten o'clock from the Beautiful Mother Herself?"

Master Mahasaya
possessed control over the flood-gates of my soul: again I plunged
prostrate at his feet. But this time my tears welled from a bliss,
and not a pain, past bearing.

"Think
you that your devotion did not touch the Infinite Mercy? The Motherhood
of God, that you have worshiped in forms both human and divine,
could never fail to answer your forsaken cry."

Who
was this simple saint, whose least request to the Universal Spirit
met with sweet acquiescence? His role in the world was humble, as
befitted the greatest man of humility I ever knew. In this Amherst
Street house, Master Mahasaya1
conducted a small high school for boys. No words of chastisement
passed his lips; no rule and ferule maintained his discipline. Higher
mathematics indeed were taught in these modest classrooms, and a
chemistry of love absent from the textbooks. He spread his wisdom
by spiritual contagion rather than impermeable precept. Consumed
by an unsophisticated passion for the Divine Mother, the saint no
more demanded the outward forms of respect than a child.

"I am not
your guru; he shall come a little later," he told me. "Through
his guidance, your experiences of the Divine in terms of love and
devotion shall be translated into his terms of fathomless wisdom."

Every late afternoon,
I betook myself to Amherst Street. I sought Master Mahasaya's divine
cup, so full that its drops daily overflowed on my being. Never
before had I bowed in utter reverence; now I felt it an immeasurable
privilege even to tread the same ground which Master Mahasaya sanctified.

"Since
we are both devotees of the Mother, you may put the garland on this
bodily temple, as offering to Her who dwells within." His vast
nature lacked space in which any egotistical consideration could
gain foothold.

"Let us
go tomorrow to the Dakshineswar Temple, forever hallowed by my guru."
Master Mahasaya was a disciple of a Christlike master, Sri Ramakrishna
Paramhansa.

The four-mile
journey on the following morning was taken by boat on the Ganges.
We entered the nine-domed Temple of Kali, where the figures of the
Divine Mother and Shiva rest on a burnished silver lotus, its thousand
petals meticulously chiseled. Master Mahasaya beamed in enchantment.
He was engaged in his inexhaustible romance with the Beloved. As
he chanted Her name, my enraptured heart seemed shattered into a
thousand pieces.

We strolled
later through the sacred precincts, halting in a tamarisk grove.
The manna characteristically exuded by this tree was symbolic of
the heavenly food Master Mahasaya was bestowing. His divine invocations
continued. I sat rigidly motionless on the grass amid the pink feathery
tamarisk flowers. Temporarily absent from the body, I soared in
a supernal visit.

This was the
first of many pilgrimages to Dakshineswar with the holy teacher.
From him I learned the sweetness of God in the aspect of Mother,
or Divine Mercy. The childlike saint found little appeal in the
Father aspect, or Divine Justice. Stern, exacting, mathematical
judgment was alien to his gentle nature.

"He can
serve as an earthly prototype for the very angels of heaven!"
I thought fondly, watching him one day at his prayers. Without a
breath of censure or criticism, he surveyed the world with eyes
long familiar with the Primal Purity. His body, mind, speech, and
actions were effortlessly harmonized with his soul's simplicity.

"My Master
told me so." Shrinking from personal assertion, the saint ended
any sage counsel with this invariable tribute. So deep was his identity
with Sri Ramakrishna that Master Mahasaya no longer considered his
thoughts as his own.

Hand in hand,
the saint and I walked one evening on the block of his school. My
joy was dimmed by the arrival of a conceited acquaintance who burdened
us with a lengthy discourse.

"I see
this man doesn't please you." The saint's whisper to me was
unheard by the egotist, spellbound by his own monologue. "I
have spoken to Divine Mother about it; She realizes our sad predicament.
As soon as we get to yonder red house, She has promised to remind
him of more urgent business."

My eyes were
glued to the site of salvation. Reaching its red gate, the man unaccountably
turned and departed, neither finishing his sentence nor saying good-by.
The assaulted air was comforted with peace.

Another day
found me walking alone near the Howrah railway station. I stood
for a moment by a temple, silently criticizing a small group of
men with drum and cymbals who were violently reciting a chant.

"How undevotionally
they use the Lord's divine name in mechanical repetition,"
I reflected. My gaze was astonished by the rapid approach of Master
Mahasaya. "Sir, how come you here?"

The saint, ignoring
my question, answered my thought. "Isn't it true, little sir,
that the Beloved's name sounds sweet from all lips, ignorant or
wise?" He passed his arm around me affectionately; I found
myself carried on his magic carpet to the Merciful Presence.

"Would
you like to see some bioscopes?" This question one afternoon
from Master Mahasaya was mystifying; the term was then used in India
to signify motion pictures. I agreed, glad to be in his company
in any circumstances. A brisk walk brought us to the garden fronting
Calcutta University. My companion indicated a bench near the
goldighi or pond.

"Let
us sit here for a few minutes. My Master always asked me to meditate
whenever I saw an expanse of water. Here its placidity reminds us
of the vast calmness of God. As all things can be reflected in water,
so the whole universe is mirrored in the lake of the Cosmic Mind.
So my gurudeva often said."

Soon we entered
a university hall where a lecture was in progress. It proved abysmally
dull, though varied occasionally by lantern slide illustrations,
equally uninteresting.

"So this
is the kind of bioscope the master wanted me to see!" My thought
was impatient, yet I would not hurt the saint by revealing boredom
in my face. But he leaned toward me confidentially.

"I see,
little sir, that you don't like this bioscope. I have mentioned
it to Divine Mother; She is in full sympathy with us both. She tells
me that the electric lights will now go out, and won't be relit
until we have a chance to leave the room."

As his whisper
ended, the hall was plunged into darkness. The professor's strident
voice was stilled in astonishment, then remarked,
"The electrical system of this hall appears to be defective."
By this time, Master Mahasaya and I were safely across the threshold.
Glancing back from the corridor, I saw that the scene of our martyrdom
had again become illuminated.

"Little
sir, you were disappointed in that bioscope,2
but I think you will like a different one." The saint and I
were standing on the sidewalk in front of the university building.
He gently slapped my chest over the heart.

A transforming
silence ensued. Just as the modern "talkies" become inaudible
motion pictures when the sound apparatus goes out of order, so the
Divine Hand, by some strange miracle, stifled the earthly bustle.
The pedestrians as well as the passing trolley cars, automobiles,
bullock carts, and iron-wheeled hackney carriages were all in noiseless
transit. As though possessing an omnipresent eye, I beheld the scenes
which were behind me, and to each side, as easily as those in front.
The whole spectacle of activity in that small section of Calcutta
passed before me without a sound. Like a glow of fire dimly seen
beneath a thin coat of ashes, a mellow luminescence permeated the
panoramic view.

My own body
seemed nothing more than one of the many shadows, though it was
motionless, while the others flitted mutely to and fro. Several
boys, friends of mine, approached and passed on; though they had
looked directly at me, it was without recognition.

The unique pantomime
brought me an inexpressible ecstasy. I drank deep from some blissful
fount. Suddenly my chest received another soft blow from Master
Mahasaya. The pandemonium of the world burst upon my unwilling ears.
I staggered, as though harshly awakened from a gossamer dream. The
transcendental wine removed beyond my reach.

"Little
sir, I see you found the second bioscope to your liking." The
saint was smiling; I started to drop in gratitude on the ground
before him. "You can't do that to me now; you know God is in
your temple also! I won't let Divine Mother touch my feet through
your hands!"

If anyone observed
the unpretentious master and myself as we walked away from the crowded
pavement, the onlooker surely suspected us of intoxication. I felt
that the falling shades of evening were sympathetically drunk with
God. When darkness recovered from its nightly swoon, I faced the
new morning bereft of my ecstatic mood. But ever enshrined in memory
is the seraphic son of Divine MotherMaster Mahasaya!

Trying with
poor words to do justice to his benignity, I wonder if Master Mahasaya,
and others among the deep-visioned saints whose paths crossed mine,
knew that years later, in a Western land, I would be writing about
their lives as divine devotees. Their foreknowledge would not surprise
me nor, I hope, my readers, who have come thus far with me.

1
These are respectful titles by which he was customarily addressed.
His name was Mahendra Nath Gupta; he signed his literary works simply
"M."Back to text

2
The Oxford English Dictionary gives, as rare, this definition of
bioscope: A view of life; that which gives such a view. Master Mahasaya's
choice of a word was, then, peculiarly justified.Back to text